


one way or another

by dashwood



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coffeeshop AU, Crack, Fluff, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, One Shot Collection, Possessiveness, Tags to be added, Tumblr Prompts, chess au, daemon AU, outside pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 13,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24519436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: “Why does Helsinki think you hate intimacy?” Andrés drawls. His words are accompanied by a sharp tug at his hair – not exactly painful, but strong enough to cause a slight discomfort. “You are the most needlessly affectionate person I have ever met. You practicallypurrwhenever I touch you.”“I don’t purr,” Martín grumbles into his pillow.Or: A collection of unrelated bits and scenes; mostly inspired by tumblr prompts.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 158
Kudos: 351





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of stand-alone prompt from my [tumblr](http://www.sorrydearie.tumblr.com/tagged/prompt-fill); head over there to see the original prompts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I’m going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else."

“And what is Sergio’s fucking problem anyway,” Martín bites out through clenched teeth, painting the mirror above his bathroom sink with splotches of white foam when he brandishes his toothbrush a bit too aggressively. “Does he think he’s better at mathematics than I am, huh? Did I miss something and he’s suddenly got a degree in engineering, is that it?”

“Martín.” Andrés’ voice cuts through the haze of anger, giving him pause. His friend sounds strange; there’s a hoarseness to his voice. A strain. “You need to put on some clothes.”

Martín turns away from the sink. Andrés' eyes are averted, fixed firmly on a spot just above Martín's right shoulder. If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost say that Andrés is _blushing_ , a peony of rosy-red blooming high on his cheekbones. 

“What? It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before.”

“Actually, I haven’t.”

Martín blinks, taken aback.

“Are you sure?”

Andrés nods, and Martín purses his lips in thought. How strange, he thinks. He isn't exactly shy about his body, and the two of them had been living together for _years_ before Sergio called them to print his stupid paper money in the _Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre_. Surely, Andrés had seen him stepping out of the shower, or getting a glass of milk in the middle of the night, or kicking out one of his lovers, or—

“Whatever,” Martín grumbles, shrugging his shoulders and turning back to the sink. The spattered blots of white staining the mirror remind him, once again, that Sergio is a fucking bastard who dared to question the accuracy of his equations. Which, in turn, made him look like a complete amateur in front of the others. In front of _Andrés_.

He feels the familiar swell of irritation rising up inside of him, an old friend whom Martín welcomes with open arms. He embraces its prickly edges, its sharp burn. Its intensity.

“I’ve gone through the numbers about a million times already,” Martín growls with a dismissive wave of his hand; another set of toothpaste blotches appears on the mirror. “They’re not nearly as complicated as Sergio thinks, and certainly nowhere near as impressive as the ones I drew up for the Bank of Spain—”

“Martín, _please_."

“Oh, fuck you and your delicate sensibilities,” Martín spits out, annoyed. He’s trying to complain about Sergio, here. Andrés should be taking his side, telling him that he's a brilliant engineer and that his brother is, of course, fucking wrong. But apparently, Andrés is too busy being a fucking prude to play his part. "Stop acting like a Victorian damsel. What, does the sight of my ankles bother you?”

He turns away to rinse his mouth, but when he tries to put his toothbrush away, Martín is stopped by a hand on his shoulder, spinning him around and shoving him up against the wall. Before he knows what’s happening, Andrés' mouth is on his, hot and insistent, tongue tracing the seam of his lips as Andrés presses his body up against Martín's. 

His toothbrush clatters to the floor.

Martín doesn't know what's happening, doesn't understand what he could have possibly done to deserve this, but he considers himself a bit of an opportunist, and so he moans and winds his arms around Andrés' shoulders to pull him even closer. And fuck, if the brush of velvet against his bare skin isn't the most sensuous thing he’s ever felt. 

He whines and whimpers and groans as he rubs himself against Andrés, wild and wanton. His whole body is _burning_ , pleasure coiling up deep inside of him as Andrés' hands run over his shoulders, his chest, his waist – stopping just short of his groin. When he pulls away, Martín feels cold, _bereft_.

“It’s not your _ankles_ that offend my sensibilities,” Andrés says with a nod towards his crotch, and it's then that Martín realizes that he's painfully hard. "Now go and put on some fucking clothes.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I’m sorry that I got way too into playing house and accidentally kissed you passionately."

“I’m sorry.”

Martín suppresses the urge to squirm when Andrés looks up from his painting. His fingers are smudged with black ink, and Martín thinks – no, he _knows_ – that he’d give anything to feel them run over his body. To have Andrés paint his skin with strokes of black, branding him, _marking_ him. 

He clears his throat.

“I’m sorry that I got carried away,” he says in a soft voice, as though that would somehow make his actions less embarrassing. “And I’m sorry that I kissed you.”

His eyes flick up to Andrés’ face, taking in the narrowed eyes, the straight line of his lips. He doesn’t give Martín much to work with. In fact, he’s been silent ever since they returned to the villa, disappearing into his room and closing the door behind him before Martín could even do so much as attempt to follow him inside.

Martín had been left to relay their findings to Sergio on his own. To tell him about the cameras inside the Royal Mint, the security system and the positioning of the guards. 

He hadn’t mentioned, of course, that these findings were based solely on _Andrés_ ’ observations. Martín had been too distracted to pay any attention to their surroundings. All rational thought had flown out the window right before they had entered the building. When Andrés had grabbed his hand and told him to _play along, querido_. 

From then on, Martín’s whole world had been reduced to the warmth of Andrés’ hand in his. To the soft brush of his thumb across his knuckles and the adoring glances Andrés sent his way every few steps. _Berlin_ and _Palermo_ had faded into obscurity, and if anyone had looked their way, they would have seen a pair of devoted lovers. Nothing more.

And then Martín had gone and ruined it all. Like a fucking fool.

“A curious thing,” Andrés hums. He sounds pensive, as though he’s contemplating a particularly interesting puzzle.

“What?”

“The kiss,” he says, and Martín watches – frozen to the spot – as Andrés gets up from his desk and crosses the distance between them in long, elegant strides. “It wasn’t just a simple peck between friends, was it?”

Slowly, Andrés leans in and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s an evanescent thing, a simple brush of their lips – completely innocent. And yet Martín’s heart flutters inside his chest, mad with desire.

“No,” Andrés whispers as he pulls away, and the hoarseness of his voice sends a shiver down his spine. “Your kiss was nothing like this. It was passionate. _Sensual_.”

An unspoked _like this_ lingers in the air between them, and it’s all the warning Martín gets before Andrés shoves him up against the wall and kisses him with raging desire. No, Martín thinks as he grasps at Andrés’ shoulders, writhing against him in an attempt to pull him closer, this is nothing like a harmless kiss between friends. This one is raw and wild, so fervent it makes his whole body _burn_.

It is everything he’s ever wanted.

Andrés pulls away much too soon for Martín’s liking, his eyes dark and lidded. 

“Mm,” he says in a truly indecent drawl. “Quite a curious thing, indeed.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I understand the whole sleep talking thing but what I don’t understand is the princess dragon dream and why I’m in it."

He’s awoken by the sensation of fingers carding through his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp. It’s absolutely delicious, and Martín moans as he burrows further into the warmth of his pillow.

So soft…

“Why does Helsinki think you hate intimacy?” Andrés drawls. His words are accompanied by a sharp tug at his hair – not exactly painful, but strong enough to cause a slight discomfort. “You are the most needlessly affectionate person I have ever met. You practically _purr_ whenever I touch you.”

“I don’t purr,” Martín grumbles into his pillow. His sleep-addled mind is too exhausted to make sense of Andrés’ words. Or the fact that Andrés is in his bed, and that Martín is using his lap as a pillow.

_Wait, what?!_

Martín’s eyes snap open as a current of white-hot panic floods his system. He jolts upright, head swiveling around to face his friend. Andrés looks calm and collected, as always, dressed in his customary three-piece suit, the crimson tie accentuating the dark glint in his eyes.

“What the fuck are you doing in my bed?”

“What,” Andrés scoffs, his eyebrow raised in mock-irritation. "You’re complaining now?”

His hand finds its way back into Martín’s hair, gently guiding him down until his head is pillowed once again in his lap. Martín should probably say something. Tell Andrés to fuck off and let him go back to sleep, but then Andrés’ fingers resume their loving caress, brushing against the soft hairs at his temple, and Martín’s eyes flutter shut on their own accord.

There are worse ways to wake up than this, he supposes. In fact, Martín is quite sure that he could get used to waking up next to Andrés. To have his face be the first thing he sees in the morning, bleary eyes and disheveled hair and all. 

“Why did you throw him out?”

“Hmm?”

“Helsinki,” Andrés clarifies. “I saw him leave your room the other night.”

Martín groans.

“I don’t like sharing a bed with someone else.”

“Mm. Are you afraid your lovers will no longer find you attractive once they have seen you drool in your sleep?”

“Fuck off,” Martín grumbles, pressing his face into Andrés’ thigh in an attempt to hide his flushed face. “I don’t drool.”

“You’re also quite talkative,” Andrés says. Martín can hear the smile in his voice. The amusement coloring his every word, softening their edges. “Tell me, why were you dreaming about princesses and dragons, and what the hell did it have to do with _me_?”

Martín wants to flip him off. He would do it, too, if it weren’t for the blurry remnants of his dream still lingering in the back of his mind: He remembers a monstrous creature guarding the gold reserves at the Royal Bank, its jagged teeth stained with blood. And Andrés – the hero of this tale – in a shining armor, looking sharp and dashing. _Powerful_. 

“Come on, _princesa_ ,” Andrés says in a teasing tone. The endearment sends a shiver down his spine – and yes, Martín is aware of how fucked-up that is. “My brother gets antsy when he can’t start his classes on time.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who wouldn’t be angry you ate all of my cereal and faked your death for three years!"

“Martín, please calm down.“

A strangled cry escapes his throat, caught somewhere between an offended gasp and an outraged huff. The audacity, Martín thinks. He is fuming – positively foaming at the mouth – and Andrés tells him to calm down, as though he were one of his women. A _hysteric_. 

“Please, you’re overreacting—”

“Oh, _I_ ’m overreacting?” Martín shakes his head, his lips twitching into a manic smile, a feral grimace. And alright, maybe he isn’t at his best right now. But he’s still hungover, dressed in nothing but a stained wifebeater and pajama pants, his hair a tousled mess. His dignity is practically non-existent at this point. Nothing but an afterthought, a thing of impossibility.

(It’s just another one of the things Andrés took from him the night he left. When he turned his back on Martín and reduced him to a crying, whimpering mess. A shell of himself.)

“You faked your death for two years,” Martín grinds out through clenched teeth, “and now you show up at my apartment and make my miserable existence even worse by eating all of my cereal?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Martín. Why would I want to eat your cereal?” Andrés scoffs, grimacing as though he just tasted something sour. Something disgusting. “I threw it away. It contains 98% chocolate; it can’t be good for you.”

He nods towards the sink where Martín can see two boxes of his favorite cereal clogging the drain. And somehow – impossibly – the sight opens the floodgates, and Martín bursts into laughter. It sounds off even to his own ears, a bit too high – so much so that it makes him seem insane. _Unhinged_. 

He laughs and laughs until his face is streaked with tears, and not even the concerned look on Andrés’ face is enough to put a damper on his little episode. Fuck him, Martín thinks. This is the new him and if Andrés doesn’t like what he’s seeing – well, we rarely appreciate our own creations.

“How the fuck did you manage to survive without me, huh?” Martín says once he has calmed down, his tone resigned. Now that he’s allowed himself to let go, he feels empty. “You can’t just throw shit down the drain – especially not my favorite cereal. Because now, _mi querido_ , I don’t have anything to eat.”

He draws in a deep breath, taking one-two-three seconds to consider if this is what he wants. If _Andrés_ is what he wants. 

“You owe me breakfast,” Martín says, raising his chin in what he hopes passes for confidence. He wants Andrés to regard him as an equal this time around. It’s either that or nothing at all. 

Something tugs at Andrés’ lips, the beginning of a smile. It’s hopeful and tentative, and Martín can’t believe that after years – fucking _years_! – he still wants to reach out and trace it with his fingers, like a besotted fool.

“Ah,” Andrés sighs, a sheepish look in his eyes. “I believe I should mention that I also threw out some of your clothes.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "The skirt is short on purpose."

“Stop staring.”

Andrés huffs out a breathy laugh and shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from Martín’s bare legs at last. The pinched expression on his face presents an equally enticing sight though, the narrowed eyes and flushed cheek leaving absolutely no doubt that Martín – his little spitfire – is _flustered_.

“I’m going to kill Sergio for this,” Martín hisses. “If he gets off on wearing women’s clothes, that’s fine by me. But if he thinks he can put me in a fucking skirt—”

“A kilt,” Andrés interjects and is, of course, ignored.

“—just because I’m gay, then he’s being a homophobic ass, who deserves to be punched in the face. Repeatedly.”

Andrés gives a non-committal hum, mainly because the alternative would be to tell Martín that he’s being ridiculous and unmanageable. To Andrés, posing as the Scottish ambassador to sneak into an international conference on top-notch security systems seems like a well-founded reason to play dress-up.

(Plus, Andrés quite appreciates seeing Martín like this. Turns out that he looks delicious in a skirt – well, a kilt.)

“He could have at least gotten one in my size,” Martín complains, tugging at his clothes as though that would magically stretch them. “Do you think Sergio got a shorter one on purpose? I bet the fucker got off on it.”

Andrés lets his gaze wander – once again – to Martín’s legs, taking in the checkered seam that hits him just above the knees. It doesn’t seem particularly immodest to Andrés; after all, he has seen his ex-wives in much shorter dresses. (Surprisingly, he has enough self-preservation not to mention that to Martín.)

“And I don’t even speak English,” Martín continues, the edges of his words blurring together as his accent thickens. “What does that bastard expect me to do? Smile and nod at everything?”

“You’ll just have to get us in, _embajador_ ,” Andrés drawls, soaking his voice with just enough heat that Martín’s eyes darken. “Once we’re inside the conference center, you’re going to slip away into an empty classroom. You’ll bend over and place your hands on one of the desks. And while you’re waiting for me, you’ll think about how… _accessible_ your delightful attire will make our little rendezvous.”

This time, Martín’s face is flushed for a whole different reason.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I may have accidentally sort of adopted five cats."

The truth was, Andrés didn’t care what Martín got up to when he wasn’t around. Oh, he knew that his friend didn’t simply stop existing when Andrés let him out of his sight. That he had his own life, one that didn’t revolve around Andrés – absurd as it might seem. Of course, Martín would find ways to keep himself entertained whenever Andrés swept his brides away to far-off places, eager to shower them in earthly riches and splendor. 

Usually, his reappearance in Martín’s life would be marked by a display of delightfully exaggerated ardor that never failed to make Andrés feel like an emperor returning to his most faithful subject. Martín would fling his arms out and pull him into a lingering embrace, crooning _querido, you’ve returned to me_ into the crook of his neck, giddy and breathless.

Their reunions – as well as the process of relearning all the ways Martín fit against him: how softly he’d keen when Andrés carded his fingers through his hair, the way his whole face would light up when Andrés even so much as _looked_ his way – almost made up for the loss that tore itself through Andrés’ chest whenever they parted ways. 

These moments of reconciliation, of _homecoming_ , held a special place in Andrés’ heart. They afforded him with a sense of warmth and wonderment that was reserved for Van Gogh’s _Sunflowers_ or Monet’s _Water Lilies_ , and how fitting that the blushing roses on Martín’s cheeks should join the ranks of these most revered of florets.

And precisely _because_ he cherished these moments so, Andrés felt a surge of irritation at what greeted him when he picked the lock to Martín’s new apartment. It looked clean enough, a bit small, but Andrés didn’t mind sharing a bed with Martín for the duration of his stay. What he did mind, however, was the incessant mewling that reached his ears as soon as he stepped foot inside. For one horrible, horrible moment Andrés feared that Martín had somehow – perplexingly – acquired a child. 

Reality proved to be much worse.

“Andrés!“ Martín chimed as he stepped out of what Andrés assumed had to be the bedroom. His friend looked the same as he had when Andrés had last seen him three weeks ago, save for the dark circles under his eyes and the tousled hair. And the litter of kittens currently climbing up his ratty bathrobe and onto his head, as though Martín were a life-sized scratching post.

Andrés stared at him. For once, he found himself speechless. Martín had to be the last person on Earth he’d expect to adopt a pet, much less a whole clowder of cats. Andrés counted three-four- _five_ disgusting little furballs, scratching and tearing and nibbling at Martín’s clothes. It was enough to send a look of distaste across Andrés’ face.

“I may have accidentally adopted a few cats,” Martín said, his mouth stretching into a sheepish smile. “Surprise?”

Andrés blinked at him, once, twice, before turning on his heels. He had just spent six hours in economy, squished between a four-packs-a-day smoker and an elderly lady, who had insisted on making up for the broken in-flight entertainment by regaling him with stories (and pictures!) of her seventeen grandchildren. Simply put, Andrés was too tired for Martín’s bullshit.

(And, he admitted to himself as he made his way to the nearest hotel, he wasn’t quite ready to examine the warmth that had spilled through his chest when he had seen Martín surrounded by a litter of kittens.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I may have accidentally sort of adopted five cats."

“I have something for you,” Andrés tells him as soon as Martín kicks the door shut behind him. The thought of Andrés presenting him with a gift – something that made Andrés think of _him_ – makes Martín feel warm all over. Especially after the day he’s had. 

The university where he moonlights as a substitute turned out to be an absolute hell-hole. Earlier, the dean called him in to let him know that he would have to rework his questions for the end-of-term exams. Apparently, asking students to solve for _x_ when _a_ is an impenetrable safe and _b_ is the amount of time needed to open it before the police barge in is frowned upon.

But Andrés – lovely, _perfect_ Andrés – must have sensed his distress and decided to lift his spirits. Martín doesn’t know what he has possibly done to deserve him.

“Oh,” he coos, slinging his satchel onto the couch. “What is it? A holiday on a private island? Pretty jewels? A new suit?”

“I didn’t say it was a present.”

And just like that the will to live leaves his body. Ha, funny. He suddenly feels the overwhelming urge to join his satchel on the couch – face-down and whining like a spoilt child who has just been denied his third ice cream for the day.

“I found a litter of cats on my way home,” Andrés continues. He has apparently decided to ignore his bad mood, and Martín resents him for it. “They will have to be taken care of.”

“And you think that my maternal charm makes me the perfect foster parent, is that it?” Martín asks, his words dripping with sarcasm.

Truthfully, there are probably worse things than looking after a few kittens. But if you set your sights on new jewelry or an exclusive holiday with the love of your life (and so what if said love of your life doesn’t return your feelings), but end up with a cardboard box of abandoned cats instead – well, it’s disappointing to say the least.

Andrés frowns at him.

“I thought you liked animals.”

“Hypothetically speaking,” Martín grumbles, shrugging his shoulders. “But we don’t exactly have the matching lifestyle for a pet, do we?”

Andrés stares him down, and Martín knows that he’s lost this round when he sees Andrés’ lips twitch. His friend doesn’t have many tells, but Martín knows this one, sadly. Displeasure.

“Fine,” Andrés huffs and turns away. “Get rid of them, then. I don’t care.”

Martín wants to groan. Of course, he is the one who has to clean up after Andrés. What else is new?

With a sigh, he grabs a bottle of milk from the fridge and follows the direction of Andrés outstretched finger to the bathroom, which has apparently been deemed the one place where the cats can do the least damage (Martín supposes he should be grateful that Andrés hasn’t dumped them in _his_ room).

He opens the door, ready to welcome his new charges to a life of crime and maybe make a pun about recruiting them as cat burglars, when he stops dead in his tracks. And slams the door shut. 

Slowly, he turns around to face Andrés, who looks at him in confusion.

“Andrés, _mi corazón_ ,“ Martín says in the same tone he would use to address a first-grader. “Those are fucking racoons.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Please put me down it's just a sprained ankle."

“You can put me down now,” Martín grumbles, his voice muffled against Helsinki’s chest. He tries to think of an experience in his life that is more embarrassing than being carried off bridal-style by a gentle giant (and not even in the fun way!), but comes up empty. At least Andrés wasn’t there to see it, having run off to fetch the first aid kit as soon as Martín’s knees had buckled beneath him.

With a grunt, Helsinki puts Martín down on the kitchen counter, his legs dangling off the edge. Martín should probably show some gratitude; he doubts that he could have limped back to the monastery on his own. Every time he tries to set down his foot, a sharp pain explodes in his ankle, an army of fire ants gnawing at his nerve endings.

Helsinki flashes him a pained smile – a commiserative thing – and Martín opens his mouth to thank him, but is interrupted when Andrés strides into the kitchen and beats him to it. 

“Thank you, Helsinki,” Andrés says in a clipped tone. “You can go back to the others now. I’ll take care of Palermo.”

Andrés places the first aid kit down on the counter – a little too forcefully – and begins to unwrap one of the bandages inside of it. He doesn’t look up when Helsinki ducks out of the kitchen, clearly unwilling to argue with Andrés when he’s so obviously in a bad mood.

Martín glances at Andrés. His expression is pinched, and Martín wonders if he’s merely concentrating on his work, or if there’s another reason for his silence. If maybe Martín has done something to agitate him.

He clears his throat.

“I guess our team doesn’t stand a chance now that it is missing its best players,” Martín says. He’s aiming for teasing banter, but Andrés doesn’t even acknowledge him. Well, so much for that…

Martín is fumbling for another way to lighten the mood when Andrés sinks to his knees in front of him. Rationally, Martín knows that it’s perfectly innocent, knows that there is nothing remotely sexual about this. And yet the sight of Andrés on his knees… it nearly _unmans_ him.

He swallows hard.

Martín watches, transfixed, as Andrés’ hand circles his ankle, the touch surprisingly gentle. As though he’s afraid of hurting Martín, of breaking him. 

He shudders when Andrés’ fingers brush over the swollen flesh of his ankle before he slowly, _softly_ , takes off Martín’s sock and wraps the bandage around his foot.

Martín wants to savor this moment. Wants to burn it into his mind and revisit it again and again. Wants to explore its potential as soon as he returns to his room later that night, alone. Wants to imagine what could have been if he was a bolder man, if he was brave enough to ask for _more_.

If Andrés could feel just a fraction of what Martín feels for him.

“Andrés,“ he says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out in a hoarse murmur. His head is spinning, heady with lust and longing. He needs a distraction. Something, _anything_. “Are you seriously angry that I cost us the win? Because that’s a really shitty thing to be upset about—”

He clamps his mouth shut when Andrés gazes up at him through lidded eyes, looking hauntingly beautiful kneeling at his feet, a gallant prince. Martín’s heart is pounding inside his chest, inside his ears, in the tense silence stretching between them. 

_Do something_ , his mind screams. _Anything, just please—_

All coherent thought flies out the window when Andrés leans down and presses a kiss against the arch of his foot, never breaking eye contact. Martín’s heart stops.

“I don’t like other people touching what’s mine,” Andrés says, his breath scorching hot against the sensitive skin of his foot. “You won’t let Helsinki touch you again.”

It’s an order, not a request, and so Martín nods. He finds it utterly impossible to speak, breathless with desire. With _love_. 

Andrés lets go of him and rises to his feet, his lips stretching into a wicked smile, and Martín longs to trace it with his tongue, to swallow it down. To _consume_ it.

“Good,” Andrés says, seemingly satisfied. "I’ll go and rejoin the others now.”

Martín watches him leave, and it isn’t until twenty minutes later that he realizes that the bastard has left him stranded on the kitchen counter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I’m like 75% this won’t explode on us."

Paula cocks her head to the side and frowns at the lump of baking powder and red goo on the kitchen counter. It was originally supposed to be a volcano for her school’s science fair, but then her uncles somehow caught wind of it and turned it into... this.

“Maybe we should ask Sergio?”

Next to her, Palermo makes a strangled sound, as though she has stabbed him in the back with a kitchen knife. Repeatedly, and with ‘malicious intent’ (Berlin is trying to teach her a new word every day; this one was last Monday’s pick). 

“Look, _princesa_ ,” Palermo says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Who do you ask if you need help with a physics project? An engineer or someone who – unironically – called our last family vacation ‘the bee’s knees’, hmm?”

Paula purses her lips, but doesn’t say anything. Which is okay, because Palermo is being rhetoric. Sometimes, adults ask you a question, but they don’t actually want an answer. She learnt that when Berlin asked her if she was being ‘vexatious’ on purpose.

“An engineer,” Palermo says with a flourish of his hands, and Paula nods and _oohs_ and _aahs_ , like he has just told her the true identity of the tooth fairy. “And when you want your volcano to look like a magnus opus, you ask an artist.”

She wants to ask what a magnum octopus is, but is distracted by the way Palermo looks at Berlin. It’s just how her mother and Sergio always look at each other, all dreamy and puppy-like. It makes her want to gag. 

“I thought Berlin was here for ‘adult supervision’,” Paula says, concentrating hard on the difficult words. She doesn’t know what they mean exactly, but it’s something Sergio insists on whenever she wants to spend time with Palermo. He didn’t like it when Palermo took her to a museum so she could help pick out a painting for Berlin’s next birthday.

Palermo huffs.

“Berlin is here because he is an invaluable asset to the project.”

“Are we sure about the baking soda?” Berlin asks, turning the box over in his hand to read the fine print on the back. Palermo makes the back-stabber-y noise again. 

“You trusted me to break into the national gold reserves, but you don’t think I’m capable of helping a first-grader—” 

“I’m in grade 5.”

“—with her science project? Unbelievable.” 

With a scoff, Palermo grabs the baking soda from Berlin’s hands and dumps it onto the messy lump on the kitchen table until the box is empty. 

Within seconds, the thing begins to fizzle, and Paula watches with wide eyes as black smoke starts to rise from the volcano’s mouth. It smells yucky, Paula thinks as she scrunches up her face. Like burnt toast and vinegar.

“Okay, that’s not...” Palermo frowns at the box in his hands. “Now I’m 75% sure that this won’t explode.”

“What? You—”

Berlin goes silent when the thing on the table erupts into a loud belch, and Paula isn’t sure whether she wants to giggle or cry. It doesn’t matter though; there’s no time to decide.

Everything happens at once.

Palermo grabs her waist, and Paula makes a funny _ooof_ when he lifts her into the air, spinning them around to shield her with his body. She presses her face into his shoulder, and watches as Berlin grabs a bowl from the counter and upends it onto the thing on the table, muffling its growls.

He’s just in time. A second later, there’s a loud noise – like that time uncle Bogotá accidentally dropped his cigarette into the box of fireworks they had gotten for her tenth birthday.

Black clouds burst out from beneath the bowl, and Paula squeezes her eyes shut to keep them from watering. There’s a metallic clang, followed by Berlin cursing. At least that’s what Paula thinks he’s doing. He’s speaking in another language again, which he only does when he’s using bad words or when he wants Palermo to come and look at something in their bedroom.

There’s more grumbling from the thing, low and drawn-out. It sounds a bit like someone stepped on a balloon, and now the air is hissing out of the rubber-y shell.

When Paula finally opens her eyes, she gasps. The whole kitchen is covered in white powder and red slime, little chunks of volcano sticking to the cabinets and counters. 

She doesn’t know what to say except for, “eww.”

“Very eloquent,” Berlin says, and Paula thinks that now is a strange time to teach her another fancy word. He’s brushing powdered dust off his suit which is stupid because his cheeks are smeared with white stains and there’s something slimy in his hair. 

Palermo doesn’t look much better. His right side is covered in grime and goo; he looks like someone dipped him into a bucket of paint, but then forgot to do his other side. He’s still staring at the thing, unblinking.

“What are we going to do now?”

Her question seems to snap him out of his daze. Carefully, Palermo puts her down, and Paula grimaces as her socked feet step into a sticky puddle on the floor. Yucky.

“Now, _princesa_ ,” Palermo says in a soft voice, “we’re going to barricade us in our house and hope that your parents won’t turn us in to Interpol for ruining their kitchen.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I’m going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else."

Martín comes perilously close to choking on his toothbrush when Andrés strides into the bathroom and starts to undress in front of him. He's muttering something about Martín taking too much time to get ready in the morning – _you’re like a woman, Martín_ – which would have offended him if his mind hadn’t gone blank the very second Andrés stripped out of his silk boxers.

He should look away. It doesn’t feel right to ogle Andrés like he’s a piece of meat. To run his eyes over the expanse of bare skin, the sharp lines of his clavicle, the dark hairs peppered over his chest, the narrow waist... The beautiful cock, the sight of which makes Martín's mouth water with the overwhelming urge to drop to his knees and wrap his lips around him. To worship Andrés the way he deserves to be worshipped, with reckless abandon. With holy reverence.

Martín swallows, and turns away. 

He’s ashamed of himself. This is _Andrés_ , after all. The man who has pulled him out of squalor, who has shown him how much life has to offer. His benefactor, his savior.

Surely, Andrés wouldn’t feel so comfortable around Martín if he knew about his sexuality. If he knew that Martín was abusing his trust by lusting after him like an adolescent schoolboy. Andrés would be disgusted by his lewdness.

Andrés would be disgusted _by Martín_.

Fuck, Martín thinks as he worries his bottom lip with his teeth. He should have told him right away. God knows why he didn’t; it’s not like he’s shy about his desire to get into the pants of any handsome devil that crosses his path. He should have just come right out and said—

“I’m gay,” he blurts out, and immediately clasps his hand over his mouth. The toothpaste smears across his lips and chin; he can taste its bitter tang mixing with the bile rising in his throat. 

He wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. 

He wants to _die_.

Andrés hums, the sound muffled by the spray of water. 

“Luc Maspero was so enamored with the Mona Lisa that he dove off a balcony,” he says in a detached tone. “He even wrote a letter to her, a token of his affection: ‘For years I have grappled desperately with her smile. I prefer to die.’”

Martín frowns, feeling lost. 

"Why are we talking about da Vinci?"

“I’m sorry,” Andrés says, poking his head out of the shower stall. His hair is plastered to his scalp, soft tendrils sticking to his forehead. Martín's fingers twitch against his thighs with the urge to brush them out of Andrés' eyes. "I thought we were stating the obvious."

Martín's stomach drops.

“You... knew?”

“I didn’t think it was a secret,” Andrés says before ducking back under the shower. His nonchalance bemuses Martín. It _vexes_ him. Martín wants to press further, wants to ask Andrés how long he has known, what Martín has done to slip up. But most of all, he wants to ask Andrés if this changes anything. If he thinks any less of him now.

“So,” Martín says in a small voice, hesitant. "You don't mind?"

Andrés scoffs.

“Do you think me a backward plebian?”

Martín's first instinct is to shake his head and say _no, of course not_. _Never that_. But he can’t deny that something has held him back. After all, if he had felt assured of Andrés' acceptance, he wouldn't have hesitated to discuss his sexuality with him. To open up to him, emotionally. 

He takes a deep breath. The air is heavy and humid from Andrés' shower, and the scent of sandalwood that invades his senses only grows when the shower door slides open and Andrés steps out. His body reacts to Andrés – immediately, _unashamedly_ – and once again, Martín can't help but stare.

He licks his lips.

“And you don’t mind...” He trails off, awkwardly flailing his arms towards Andrés’ naked body as if to say _you don’t mind me seeing you like this, so exposed and vulnerable? So beautiful?_

“Why would I?” Andrés smiles, dark and knowing. "What is a work of art that doesn’t encourage admiration?”

He wraps a towel around his waist, and Martín bites down on the wave of disappointment that surges up inside of him. A work of art, indeed. Martín would be the luckiest man alive if he were allowed to worship Andrés freely. To graze his fingertips along his skin, to trace the lines and angles of his body with his lips, to kiss and taste and touch and hold.

It’s then that Martín first comes to understand Maspero’s despair.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "You need to stop leaving dead bodies in my kitchen."

“You can’t leave dead bodies in the kitchen!”

Andrés is aware that Martín isn't the most eloquent of conversational partners early in the morning, but as far as his usual non sequiturs go, this one seems to be particularly baffling. 

“What are you talking about?” Andrés frowns, putting down his brushes. He should probably admonish his friend for barging into his room unannounced – after all, he could have had a date over. But Martín looks strangely ruffled, his face a ghastly shade of white, and it wrings a rare bout of sympathy from Andrés.

“The fucking corpse at the kitchen table,” Martín hisses. His flailing arms and the ratty hem of his bathrobe make him look like a possum, all sharp teeth and blazing eyes. It’s rather endearing, actually. “I thought it was one of your women. I even offered it a cup of coffee before I realized that it was, in fact, not breathing.”

Andrés purses his lips in thought. Funnily enough, he doesn’t remember leaving a corpse in the kitchen. Which sounds like a rude thing to do anyway, leaving a rotting corpse in the same room where they prepare their food. No, Andrés would store a body in the bathtub. Much more hygienic and easier to clean up...

“Ah,” he says as realization dawns on him, a lazy smile stretching across his face. “You mean the anatomically correct mannequin. I use it for drawing practice when you’re not around. To get the proportions right.”

“I don’t care if it’s a sex doll or a leftover from the local morgue, I want it gone. I nearly pissed myself!"

“Don’t be vulgar,” Andrés grimaces, turning back to his painting. “I wouldn’t have any need for it if you didn’t insist on working all the time.”

“All the—” Martín huffs, his feathers ruffled. “What do you want me to do? Quit my job so I can pose for you, huh?”

“You’re an awful model, anyway.”

“What, because I’m not naked and pliant like your weird sex doll?”

Andrés can’t help it. Against his will, his lips twitch into an amused smile, a dangerous blunder. Martín is a shark smelling blood whenever Andrés reacts favorably to his flirtatious advances, and it seems that now isn't any different.

“Ah, _mi querido_ ,” Martín drawls in a sickly-sweet voice, his accent thick like spun sugar. “You should have said something.”

There’s the sound of ruffled clothing, and a moment later Martín's bathrobe drops to the floor. Once again, Andrés finds himself forced to put down his brush and turn to Martín, the attention-seeking little thing. He’s grinning cheekily down at him, an impish glint in his eyes.

“Do you want me to sing, hmm?” He asks in a hoarse voice, barely above a whisper. “Set the mood so you can enjoy the show?”

He starts to hum low in his throat, the gaudy tune clashing with the strained atmosphere between them. The air is charged with electricity, and Andrés’ fingers twitch in his lap as he watches Martín pull on the drawstring of his pajama pants. A moment later, they join his robe on the floor, a puddle of black and white and blue. 

His shirt is next. Martín's movements are agonizingly slow as he lifts it over his head, tousling his hair even more. Andrés' eyes immediately latch onto the exposed skin of his chest, lingering. The planes of his body are harder, sharper than those of a woman, and yet Andrés doesn't doubt that Martín would feel soft and warm and lovely beneath his exploring hands.

_Beautiful_...

Andrés swallows. His mouth is dry, filled with cotton. He wants to lick his lips, but knows that Martín would recognize it as a sign of weakness. As confirmation that he's caving, that Andrés is surrendering to him. 

No, he thinks. This is a challenge, a game of wits. And Andrés hates losing.

Martín is reaching for the band of his boxers now, his hips swaying slightly from side to side as his fingers dip beneath the waistband. A few seconds pass. Andrés isn't sure if Martín is hesitating, or if he’s merely feasting on the anticipation, allowing the moment to stretch until it’s a suffocating, gluttonous thing that robs Andrés off his breath.

He can feel his heart thundering inside his chest, his body high on adrenaline. He isn’t sure what’s happening, isn’t sure if he wants to jump up and shove Martín against his desk, or if he wants to yell at him to take his fucking robe and leave.

It seems like an impossible situation, a conundrum.

And so Andrés does the cowardly thing.

He lets Martín win.

“I’ll get rid of the mannequin,” he concedes as he pushes past Martín towards the door. He's doing his best to appear unaffected, cold and aloof. Like he can't hear Martín giggling at his obvious forfeit.

It doesn’t matter, Andrés tells himself. Martín can have this one. The next time though... Andrés won't let him get off so easily.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can't believe I'm sitting in space jail with you of all people."

Roberto had just wanted to get a drink or two (or three) before heading home after a long day at work, but his evening took a strange turn when a man slouched down on the bar stool next to him, muttering something about _having just landed_ and _there being no decent bars left on Earth_.

Great, Roberto thought as he tried to make himself appear as small as possible. Of all the bars in Madrid, he’d had the luck of picking the one with a resident lunatic. Wonderful. He just hoped that the stranger was too engrossed in his own ramblings to notice him—

“Good evening, _Señor_ ,” the stranger slurred, swaying in his seat. Roberto’s eyes flew to his hand to see the liquid in his glass sloshing over the rim and onto his fingers, little droplets of whiskey spilling onto the bar. What a waste of perfectly good alcohol.

“Can’t believe I’m sitting in space jail with you of all people,” the stranger mumbled, the words butchered by his heavy accent. Argentinian, was Roberto’s guess. Not that he cared to find out. He was growing increasingly tense by the second, especially with the way the stranger was grinning – almost _leering_ – at him, as though he wanted to devour Roberto whole.

He gulped.

“Look,” Roberto said, holding up his hands, “I’m not in the mood for conversation.”

“But who said anything about conversation, hmm? How about we get out of here? My ship is parked right across the street.”

Roberto jumped when he felt a hand on his thigh, hot and sticky with alcohol. His skin was burning beneath the stranger’s touch, and Roberto felt himself flushing. He wasn’t… He had never even _thought_ about… with a man, no less, and… which wasn’t to say that the stranger wasn’t attractive, but—

“Is this man bothering you, _Señor_?”

Roberto’s head swiveled around, eyes coming to land on a man towering over the stranger. The newcomer was clad in an elegant three-piece suit, exuding power and poise, and Roberto breathed a sigh of relief. He immediately felt calmer, at ease. Safe.

“I was just being friendly,” the man next to him grumbled, and Roberto felt his hand slip of his thigh at last.

“Maybe you should go and turn your charm on someone else,” the newcomer suggested, his tone clipped yet polite. His eyes never left the other man as he grabbed his drink and stumbled towards the rear exit, all the while muttering something about _hostile life forms_ under his breath. Good riddance.

“Thank you,” Roberto said as soon as the man had disappeared. “I wasn’t… I mean, I’m not… Not that there’s anything wrong with, uhm…”

The man tutted and shook his head, a shark-like grin stretching over his lips.

“Nothing to worry about, my friend,” he said, reaching out to pat Roberto’s shoulder. His understanding manner as well as the way his hand lingered, warm and comforting, caused the tension to fade from Roberto’s body. What a nice man, he thought. A true gentleman.

“Although, if I may give you some advice,” the man said in a confidential whisper, and Roberto leaned in, hanging on his every word. “This bar is frequented by crooks. Better watch out.”

He winked and gave his shoulder one last pat before turning on his heels and slipping out of the rear exit. Roberto stared after him for a good minute, grateful for his helpfulness. God knows what could have happened, if… No, Roberto was glad that honorable men like that still existed. Men who stopped to help a stranger in need. A good Samaritan. 

It wasn’t until he was leaving the bar half an hour later that he realized his car keys and wallet were missing.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unprompted.

_Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump._

“She wasn’t good enough for you anyway.” 

Andrés laughs at Martín’s tone. It’s a fetching color on him, this charming cross between derision and indignation on Andrés' behalf. There's a dark undercurrent, too. It’s sharp and stinging, _I told you so_ lingering between the lines, and Andrés is impressed by Martín’s resolve to keep his jeer to himself. It proves, once again, that Martín is his most ardent friend, his trusted devotee. His soulmate, to 99% at least.

They both know that Andrés needs these little white lies to tide himself over his heartbreaks. Just until he has nursed his heart back to health, filled the cracks with molten gold and turned it into a work of art. 

Three divorces, he thinks with a grimace, that means he believed in love three times. His heart is a flighty little thing, easily spooked and whimsical in nature. A changeling. It can’t help but hope, can’t help but flutter whenever fate dangles a lovely woman in his line of sight. 

No, his is nothing like Martín's bruised and battered heart. Martín guards it so carefully and yet Andrés can see it right there on his sleeve, can contemplate its crimson glow, can hear its— 

_Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump._

“What irony,” Andrés sighs, his eyes fluttering shut so he can appreciate the taste of hypocrisy on his tongue, cloying like a fine wine. “To take solace from someone who doesn’t believe in love.” 

Martín doesn't answer, at least not in so many words. His hand stills its gentle caress, fingers twitch-twitching against Andrés' scalp. Andrés gives a disapproving tut (if he were a cat, he'd turn his head and _bite_ ), and Martín's hand resumes its loving touch, carding through his hair, tugging at the strands. It’s lovely – exactly what Andrés wants from his women. Devotion, affection, reverence. Is that so much to ask for? 

“I believe in love,” Martín says eventually, his tone reserved. “I believe that it exists in children’s tales and cheap telenovelas.” 

“How depressing.” 

Martín hums low in his throat, a deep rumbling that reverberates through his chest. Andrés can feel it wash over him, can feel it where his head is pillowed on Martín's sternum like a spoilt spouse. 

“It’s hard to believe in something you’ve never experienced. When all you know is pain. When those who were supposed to love you—” He cuts himself off, takes a deep breath. “Love is vile and violent. It takes and takes and takes until there’s nothing left of you.” 

There’s another pause, but this one feels ill-boding. Like the calm before the storm. 

“I don’t love anyone,” Martín declares at last. "And I’m glad for it.” 

_Liar_ , Andrés wants to say. The word is poised on the tip of his tongue, half-formed like a stillborn. It would be cruel though, wouldn’t it? To prod and poke at Martín's heart like that. 

“A white whale,” he says instead. Metaphors have always served him well, after all. “I’ve been sailing out to sea every day now, pursuing a phantasm that may never come true. That, according to you, might not even exist. Maybe you are onto something, crashing your ship into the rocks on the first day.” 

“You don’t need to sail out to sea to fuck a sailor.” 

His deadpan reply makes Andrés chuckle, amusement spilling freely from his lips. Turning his head, he presses a quick kiss against the sharp edge of Martín's clavicle. It's a selfish indulgence, and yet Andrés tells himself that it's a benediction, a reward. A silent _thank you, Martín_ for lifting Andrés' spirits, for being such a delightful little thing. 

And Andrés has to admit that he quite enjoys the way Martín's breath hitches. At such a simple gesture, no less. A fleeting brush of Andrés’ lips against the scratchy fabric of his shirt. It makes him wonder (not for the first time) what else he could draw from him. If a chaste peck results in this breathlessness, this marching pace: 

_Ba-dump,_ _ba_ _-dump,_ _ba_ _-dump._

Silence settles over them. Andrés could fall asleep like this, easily. The soft rise and fall of Martín's chest beneath his head, the melodious beat of his heart tucked against his ear. 

He should really head back to his hotel. But it’s pouring outside, dark and midnight-dreary, and Martín feels so impossibly warm and comfortable. Like home. More so than the cold hotel room with its white-washed walls and barren furniture. 

“How did you know?” 

_How did you know that she didn’t love you_ , is what Martín means. 

For a brief moment Andrés considers feigning ignorance. It would be easy to put on a mock-innocent face and change the subject. After all, he doesn’t like to dwell on his mistakes, doesn’t like to revisit his failures time and again. Sergio likes to call him naïve, and Andrés knows full well that Martín would be quick to do the same if he wasn't so tactful. 

(Andrés has yet to meet someone who shares his expectations of unconditional love, this self-imposed aesthetic of romanticism.) 

“Her body betrayed her,” he says, sighing. “You can fake smiles and laughter, flutter your eyelashes like a tempting nymph. But love in its truest, most pure form – ardent worship combined with animalistic lust – that's impossible to fake. The breathless exhale when you take her hand, the eager giggling when you lead her to bed, the blown pupils when you fuck her.” 

Andrés pauses, takes his time. 

“The quickened heartbeat when you hold her close, after. That’s impossible to fake.” 

_Ba-dumpBa-dumpBa-dumpBa-dump._

Smiling to himself, Andrés burrows further into Martín's side, sprawled against him like a lazy cat. He wraps his arm around his waist – abandoning all hope that he’ll make it back to his hotel – and closes his eyes, listening to the rapid tha-thumping of Martín's heart beneath his ear. 

Andrés has yet to find a woman whose heart _thrills_ like Martín's when he's near. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unprompted: dæmon AU

Martín watched in fascination as his fingers sank into Dantalion’s shiny fur, disappearing between silken strands of nightshade and shimmering gold. No matter how many times Andrés encouraged him to pet and brush and _feel_ her, Martín would never get used to it. Used to the fact that Andrés allowed him to touch his dæmon, that he allowed Martín to caress a part of his soul. 

That he allowed Martín to fool himself – for just a moment – that it was his own dæmon he was touching. That he wasn’t alone in the world, severed from his other half. That there was someone who cared for him, who understood him wholly – without reservation or judgement. 

Dantalion rumbled low in her chest, craning her neck to nuzzle his cheek. It was almost as if the clouded leopard had felt the darkness closing in on his mind. Although Martín supposed that it was more likely that she had simply caught the intensity of Andrés' stare, searching, _knowing_. 

“We’re meeting with my brother at seven,” Andrés said, fastening his cufflinks and tsk-ing in exaggerated disapproval when Martín wasn't quick enough to hide the look of distaste that flashed across his face at the mention of Sergio. 

He couldn’t help it. Him and Sergio had been off to a rocky start, and if it weren’t for Andrés, Martín would have punched Sergio and his fucking owl dæmon in the face by now. Repeatedly. 

Sergio had never made a secret out of his dislike for Martín, calling him too volatile, too unpredictable, broken. Because he didn't have a dæmon. Because his mother had taken her away when Martín had still been young and innocent, had wrapped her hand around her throat and twisted it just so, until her broken shrieks had stopped. Forever. 

The deafening silence had followed Martín ever since. 

“ _Tranquilo_ , Martín.” Andrés' voice snapped Martín back to the present, back to the here and now, back to the rise and fall of Dantalion’s chest beneath his trembling hands. Andrés was standing over him, looming large like a distorted shadow in the flickering candlelight, and Martín watched as he reached out to card his fingers through Martín's hair, petting him like Martín was petting Dantalion. 

"Would you prefer to stay here while I go out?” Andrés asked. “You're indisposed, is that it?" 

Martín swallowed past the lump in his throat. 

“And miss an opportunity to catch up with your charming brother, hmm?” Martín plastered on a fake smile, closer to a leer than a gesture of goodwill. Andrés didn't fall for it. 

“Martín." 

His tone was cold, sharp. A warning. Martín knew he couldn't weasel his way out of this one, knew that he lacked the strength to refuse Andrés anything. 

Martín sighed. 

“It’s something he said,” he trailed off, biting the inside of his cheek. Black mist coiled at the edge of his vision, drawing nearer and nearer. A sense of dread and foreboding pushed down on his chest, cutting off his air, making it impossible to— 

A sharp tug at his hair had him sucking in a breath, the blackness retreating at once. 

“Sergio thinks that there’s something wrong with you,” Martín said, feeling dirty just repeating the words. “Because you don’t feel pain when someone touches your dæmon.” 

His confession was met by silence, as loud as the one in his head, in his heart, in his soul. It felt strained, _tense_ , like the calm before the storm. Like the blink-of-an-eye just before a wildcat lunged at their prey, still yet deadly. 

Martín felt Andrés' fingers twist in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp almost painfully. Martín's eyes fluttered shut. 

Andrés _laughed_ , and let go off him. He stepped around Martín and sat down on the sofa, crossing his legs. Dantalion was by his side in an instant, sprawling at his feet like a royal guard. 

“Martín," Andrés sighed, and Martín’s stomach dropped. He was _terrified_ that Andrés was growing tired of him, that he no longer thought his self-pity charming and entertaining. That he was running out of reasons to keep Martín around. "What did I say when you told me about your dæmon?” 

“You said that I’d never rise above it,” Martín said, reciting the words like a poem learnt by heart. "That I’d outlive the pain, but never overcome it. That there’s no coming back from the loss of a dæmon, the loss of a loved one. That I’d feel her forever, like a phantom limb.” 

When he didn’t go on, Andrés made a sound caught somewhere between a prodding hum and a purr, a low rumbling. 

“You said that any space could be filled, you said that...” He hesitated before pressing on, the words soft and well-worn on his tongue. A comfort. “You said that we’d share.” 

“That’s right,” Andrés said, the dark smile on his face at odds with the soft look in his eyes. A study in contrasts, that was Andrés. “Now get dressed. The taupe shirt that matches Dantalion’s coat.” 

As Martín slipped into his bedroom, he wondered if Andrés hadn't gotten it wrong. If maybe it wasn’t a case of them sharing Dantalion, but rather of Martín and Dantalion both belonging to Andrés, two shards of a torn soul gathered within Andrés' heart. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: He just had to paint him.

The tangerine light soaked through the windows, spilling onto their table and plunging their sketches into iridescent hues of peach and apricot as the day bled out. The jukebox in the corner had gotten stuck on an orchestral version of _bella ciao_ , and a collective groan went through the café each time the song started anew.

“White noise,” Ágata had called it, her thumb smoothing across the contours of her drawing. “I’d rather listen to a _Groundhog Day_ time-loop of _bella ciao_ than the usual Eurotrash.”

“Raquel mentioned a new café across the street from the English department,“ Sergio said, tapping the bridge of his glasses with his index finger – a nervous habit.

Andrés didn’t know why his brother kept tagging along. Ágata and him weren’t exactly the best company when they were sketching, too absorbed in their artwork to do anything but glance up every other minute to take a look at their unwitting reference – cramming students, coffeeshop couples or business men in cheap suits typing furiously away on their laptops.

Still, Andrés supposed that their sparse conversation suited Sergio just fine. He had always enjoyed the quiet.

“Do they have a student discount?”

“I don’t know,” Sergio said, hands fumbling with the pages of his textbook. Andrés could see the beginnings of a blush seeping into his cheeks. “I- I could ask Raquel.”

Andrés would tease his dear _hermanito_ for his obvious crush if his thoughts hadn’t been occupied by something else all evening now.

By _someone_ else.

Ever since they had poured into their usual booth, Andrés’ attention kept drifting back to the barista behind the counter.

Oh, there was nothing special about him. He looked just like any other student moonlighting as a minimum-wage worker at one of the on-campus cafés, the lack of sleep evident in the dark circles under his eyes, the hair hanging limply into his face. The disgruntled expression, like he’d rather be anyhwere else.

He wasn’t exceptionally handsome either, and yet…

He _intrigued_ Andrés.

Maybe it was the way he held himself, the fire that burned in his eyes whenever one of the customers snapped at him, impatient and rude. Maybe it was the way his tongue poked the chip in his teeth, how charming, how delightful! Or maybe it was the nonchalance with which he snuck cookies and muffins from the cake display, not looking guilty in the slightest.

Whatever it was, Andrés wanted to see more of it. Wanted to capture it, bottle it up in a glass jar and keep it for himself. An invaluable treasure.

Making up his mind, Andrés put down his brush and slid out of the booth. He ignored Ágata’s irritated huff (” _Eyo, cariño, were you even listening to me?”_ ) as he sidled up to the counter.

The barista flashed him a million-watt smile; it was obviously fake. The kind of plastic-veneer façade they reserved for customers: nice and pleasant and _would you like fries with that?_ Even so Andrés didn’t miss the spark of interest lighting up his eyes.

Perfect.

Andrés fished his phone out of his pocket and pushed it across the counter.

“Put in your number.”

The barista’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline as he looked Andrés up and down, the moment lingering, before heaving an exaggerated sigh and reaching for the phone. 

“You’re lucky you’re such a handsome bastard,” he said as he punched his number into the phone. “It usually takes more than that to get me into bed. Or into a restroom. The back of a car. A dark alley.”

“I don’t want to fuck you, _Martín_ ” Andrés said with a glance at the barista’s name tag. "I want to _paint_ you.”

The barista’s – _Martín’s_ – fingers stilled as he glanced up, brows knitted in confusion.

“Paint me?” He blinked. “What, like one of your French girls?”

Andrés smirked, amused.

“Don’t worry,” he said, allowing their fingers to brush as he took back his phone. “You can keep your clothes on. For now.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unprompted: Chess AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the result of me binge-watching world champions trying to beat the Beth Harmon AI on yt.
> 
> If I didn't need any knowledge of chess to write this, you don't need any to read it.

Martín could feel his eyes on him. 

For years he had wished that Andrés would find him. That he'd make good on the promise he had given him, his eyes shining with unshed tears. _I'll find you_ , he had said, _trust me_. And Martín – young and foolish and naïve – had believed him. 

Martín had waited at the orphanage, for one more year. He had waited, still, when a couple had come to adopt him. When they had taken him ‘home’ and dressed him in non-itching clothes, when they had sent him to school and gifted him his own chess set for Christmas. 

He had waited as he played one game after the other, as he became better and better, as he deafeated junior champions and candidate masters. Chess was the only thing he was good at. The only thing that made him feel like he was worth something. 

Aside from chess, only Andrés had ever made him feel like he was worth something. 

At least he had done so back then.

Now his attention made Martín want to claw his own skin off.

When Martín had imagined their reunion (in the dead of night, with the blanket pulled over his head, a dark cocoon made of warmth and dreams and desperate fantasies), their first meeting was always marked by greatness. 

Martín would look good, _handsome_. Dressed in a pressed shirt and elegant slacks, his hair slicked back, a confident smile on his face. Maybe he’d just won a match, bolstered by triumph and pride, and on the fast lane to becoming a Grandmaster. The pride of chess.

But these fantasies couldn’t have been further from the truth. Reality, it seemed, was a fickle mistress. 

Walking into a grand finale to find Andrés seated in the front row should have filled Martín with awe and gratitude. With love, even. 

What he was feeling now, however, was the exact opposite: He felt ashamed.

Like a failure. A disappointment. 

Martín was hungover from a night of drinking. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin ashen. He was wearing the same clothes as the day before, rumpled from lying on the floor, and soaked with cigarette smoke and sweat. He was still sore from letting some guy fuck him in the hotel restroom, too rough and without ample preparation. 

And to top it all off, Martín was losing the match. Spectacularly. 

He hated this. 

He hated Sergio Marquina for being so fucking good at chess. He hated him for sitting there unfazed and infuriatingly polite, as though Martín wasn't turning out to be the most pathetic player he had ever faced. 

He hated Andrés for barging into his life at the worst possible time. He hated him for witnessing this shameful moment, for looking so good and sympathetic, as though he’d still be there for Martín when he would inevitably topple his own King and force an amicable smile as he congratulated Marquina on his win. 

But most of all, Martín hated himself. That much was a given. Always. 

“Are you nervous?” 

Martín's eyes snapped up. Marquina wasn’t even looking at him as he dragged his Rook across the board to e5. A good move; it would block Martín's pawn. 

“No,” Martín said. His clipped tone would hopefully dissuade Marquina from trying for any more idle chitchat. He could shove it up his ass. 

“I’m nervous,” Marquina admitted. “It’s the first time my brother has come to watch me play.” 

Good for you, Martín wanted to snap. But that would be unprofessional. No need to give the papers any more reason to disparage him. His disheveled appearance and sour mood could already fill a whole page. 

“It raises the stakes, don’t you think?” Marquina went on. “When someone you care about is watching. You don’t want them to see you lose.” 

Martín clenched his jaw. He had to resist the urge to flick up his eyes and search the crowd for Andrés's face. To assure himself that he was still there, that he was still watching. That his eyes were still kind and forgiving, despite Martín's subpar performance.

He couldn't let himself be distracted. He had to focus on Marquina’s Queen’s side Castle or he might as well surrender his King right away. If Marquina thought he could distract him with a bit of awkward small talk, well, Martín wouldn't fall for it. He wouldn't allow it. 

He had made that mistake once. Back at the orphanage.

Andrés had been young and scrawny, and Martín had been younger and scrawnier still. Martín wouldn’t have lasted a day without his guidance, without his protection. (Without his lopsided smiles and silky-smooth voice. Without his friendship.) 

Martín had always had a penchant for getting himself into trouble, and sneaking off to play chess instead of practicing for their algebra quiz was bound to get him a good whipping – if Andrés hadn't had his back.

He had never held Martín's peculiarities against him. 

Martín still remembered the first time Andrés had sat down across the table from him. He had picked up the Queen’s pawn, weighing it in his hand as though it were a precious jewel, before moving it to e4 – the opening to the Queen’s Gambit or the Dutch Defense, as Martín would later learn. Not that Andrés would have known about it; he didn't care for chess. 

“I am meeting with another family on Thursday,” Andrés told him, moving his Bishop to g5. "They have a daughter. A pretty thing.” 

Martín captured his Bishop with a Rook. 

“Do you think this one will be it?” 

It wasn’t the first time a family had come to visit Andrés. He was handsome and intelligent and charming; families were practically waiting in line to adopt him. 

But Andrés was also stubborn. So far, Martín had witnessed him turn down no less than nine families who had wanted to adopt him. It was admirable, really. Andrés behaved as though he were in a position to pick and choose (he was), as though each day spent at the orphanage wasn’t hell on Earth (it was). The orderlies didn’t take kindly to poor, unfortunate orphans ‘spitting in the face of their kindness by refusing a great opportunity at a normal, Christian life’. (When Martín had seen the bruises on Andrés's wrists and back, he wanted to burn the whole place to the ground.) 

Andrés hummed, low and melodious. 

“And how would you feel about that, Martín? Won't you miss me when I'm gone?" 

Martín forced out a laugh like the thought of losing Andrés didn't make his stomach drop, and looked up to meet Andrés's eyes. It proved to be a mistake. Andrés was wearing a coy expression as he bit the tip of his finger. The show of mock-innocence made Martín's breath hitch in his throat, weak and needy.

 _Lustful_.

Andrés chuckled. He knew exactly what he was doing, to Martín. How he made him burn and ache for him, with just a simple look. And, judging from the way Andrés's eyes were gleaming as he captured Martín's Queen, that had been his intention all along. 

“Checkmate.” 

Martín's head snapped up, eyes flying over the checkered squares to stare at Marquina. He didn’t look smug about his win. If anything, he looked embarrassed, squirming in his seat and fiddling with the frame of his glasses. 

Around them, the room burst into a lightning field of flashing cameras, jolting Martín out of his stupor. He wrangled his expression back under control. A smile. He had to try for a smile, even if his stomach was churning. 

The sensible – honorable – thing to do would be to get up and shake Marquina’s hand. To congratulate him on a match well played and a deserved win. 

Instead, Martín turned on his heels and fled the room. 

His feet carried him to the men's room, where he barged into one of the stalls and emptied his stomach right into the bowl. He was such a fuck-up. He’d been working toward this match for years now; it would have gotten him an invite to the World Championship. But instead of delivering, of proving to the world of chess that he had earned his place among its ranks, Martín had botched it up like a blue-eyed ingénue. An amateur. 

The worst part was that Andrés had been there to witness it. 

“Fuck!” 

Martín pressed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. _Tranquilo_. He had to- had to compose himself. Gather his bearing. He’d slip out the back, get a cab back to his hotel and grab a shower. Yes, that sounded like a good plan. Good enough, anyway.

Maybe time would be generous enough to give him another chance to see Andrés.

A remis. 

Martín flushed the toilet and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Trying to screw together at least a semblance of dignity, he exited the stall. And stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Andrés standing at the sinks. 

“Martín." His voice was warm and happy, like he hadn’t just caught Martín throwing up at a public restroom. “How lovely to see you.” 

Martín felt a sob clawing at his throat. Liar, he wanted to say, but couldn't gather enough strength for a fight. He was tired and sore; his mouth tasted like something had died on his tongue, and he just wanted to get back to his room and down a whole bottle of tequila from the mini bar. Maybe even two. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I missed you,” Andrés said, and against his better judgement, Martín felt a rush of warmth spilling inside his chest. “It has been far too long.” 

Martín didn't know what to say. When he had played through this scene in his head, moving Andrés around like a figurine on a chess board, he had always been witty and suave. He had always managed to make Andrés laugh. But now it felt like he had suddenly forgotten every word in the Spanish language. 

He was saved by the door swinging open, allowing a rush of music and excited chatter to slip into the room and fill the silence.

Marquina stuck his head inside. When he noticed Martín standing in the middle of the room, looking pale and sickly, no doubt, his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Martín. A good game,” he lied. 

“I shouldn’t have played pawn to b3.” 

“No, that one was a mistake” Marquina agreed, pushing his glasses up with the tip of his finger. He turned his attention to Andrés. “Are you coming? We're running late for dinner." 

“I’ll be just a moment.” 

Marquina left, but the shock and confusion stayed with Martín. His heart sank, as though it had slipped through a crack in his ribs. 

“You are here for Marquina?” 

“He’s my brother,” Andrés said. "Half-brother, actually. Looks like I had some family after all. They just didn’t want me.” 

His words barely registered with Martín.

He was stuck on the fact that Andrés wasn't here because of _him_. Andrés hadn't searched for him, like he had promised. He hadn't bought a plane ticket and crossed an ocean to see him again. Andrés hadn't wanted to see him play, to smile at him from across the room in silent encouragement. He hadn't wanted to kiss him good-luck, and to fuck him well-done. 

Andrés hadn't wanted him.

Andrés _didn't_ want him. 

Fuck, he felt so stupid.

“I thought,” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “I thought you were here for...” 

_For me_. 

Andrés’s eyes softened. 

“Can’t I be here for the both of you?” 

Martín stared at him, taking in the dark eyes, the charming smile. The ivory skin and chiseled features, the way he held himself with the elegance of a King. Oh, how Martín wished he could reach out and wrap his hand around him, to keep him in his grip. And never let go.

Instead, Andrés seemed to slip through his fingers, once again. 

Aside from chess, Andrés had been the only thing that made sense to Martín. 

Until now. 

“No,” Martín said after a moment, his voice strained. "That’s not how chess works.” 

Without another glance, he pushed past Andrés and left.

To think that he had believed that Andrés would understand him. That he'd understand that the world was black and white, and divided into two opposing sides. That its front lines kept shifting, yes, but that a white King could never cross over. He couldn’t belong to two players. 

_Es_ _imposible_. 

And if Andrés didn’t understand it now, Martín would just have to make him see reason. He would become better. The next time they’d meet, Martín would shine, brilliantly. Just like he should have done during his match with Marquina. 

Because Martín _would_ meet Andrés again, that much he knew. It was inevitable. Time would bring them back together, one way or another. 

Until then, Martín would keep on waiting, his eyes set firmly on the endgame. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Don't be afraid. Just let go.

“—the bleeding. Press down here, just like this.”

Stockholm’s voice was fraught with panic. Absurdly, it made Martín almost glad for the violent coughs rattling through his lungs – at least they drowned out the cacophony of cries and screams rising to a thunderous crescendo. 

The blood kept gurgling out of his mouth and spilling over his chin. He wanted to reach up and wipe at it with the back of his sleeve, wanted to preserve a semblance of dignity as he lay there, bleeding out on the marble floors of the Royal Bank of Spain, but his limbs were tired and heavy. He couldn’t move.

Fuck, he couldn’t even _breathe_.

It felt as though a boa constrictor had wrapped itself around his lungs, twisting its body to _squeeze_ the life out of him. 

The pain was unimaginable.

It was impossible to concentrate on anything else. Even the most mundane of things had turned into a challenge: every breath was excruciating, and blinking took so much strength that Martín had, at some point, decided to shut his eyes for good. 

Wrapped up in the cloth of darkness, he could pretend that he was merely sleeping. 

That he would wake up, eventually. 

That he would be alright. 

That he would _live_.

Besides, it wasn’t like he was missing out. 

Before he had closed his eyes, the view had been abysmal at best. The blurred smudges of Stockholm’s features were burnt into his retinas. He could still see it: the horror on her face, white and ashen. The only speck of color had been the Dali-red of Martín’s blood splattered across her cheeks like a constellation of freckles.

No, Martín decided. He’d sooner have the darkness. 

By now it had become his trusted companion. An ally. Its coat had sheltered Martín for years, the hem well-worn with time. It had been there when his mother had kicked him out. It had kept watch as he had picked the pockets of rich men and wealthy women, back when he’d lived pocket-to-hand-to-mouth. 

The darkness had also been there when he had met _him_. 

Even under the starless night sky, Andrés’s eyes had shone like priceless gemstones.

(Martín hadn’t stood a chance.)

If only Martín had been a stronger man, maybe things would have gone differently. Maybe then he could have been happy.

Around him, the frantic shouting softened. He could still hear Stockholm barking orders – probably at Denver or Bogotá; one of the more useless ones in any case. 

For a brief moment Martín believed that he heard someone crying. Which didn’t make sense. There was no one left in this world who would mourn him. 

There hadn’t been anyone who’d cared about him since…

Since _Andrés_.

Just thinking about him made Martín feel warm all over. Like he was lounging in front of a fireplace, little pinpricks of heat darting across his cheeks like lightning bugs, shyly, _playfully_. 

Even the wind was soft-spoken as it pressed its nose against the windows like a curious child trying to catch a glimpse inside. 

The air was stained with the scent of honey pomelo, freshly-peeled tangerines and mulled wine. Its taste lingered on Martín’s lips, as sweet as a lover’s kiss.

Something tickled his face, tracing a lazy path over the bridge of his nose, the arch of his brow, the line of his cheekbone. It was soft and feather-light, and Martín raised his hand to swat it away. 

He was met with a deep chuckle, the sound familiar to his heart.

Martín’s eyes snapped open.

“There you are.” Andrés smiled. “My clever engineer.”

Somehow, Martín had always thought that he’d fall apart if he ever got the chance to see Andrés again. 

Oh, Martín had always been a weak man – of course, he’d imagined this moment. He’d clutched it to his chest in the dead of night, burrowing into its coils regardless of the way they wrapped around his throat and cut into his flesh.

But now there was none of the overwhelming gratitude he had always imagined. He didn’t feel shocked or even surprised, and there was no anger or indignation either.

Instead, he was overcome by an inner peace. A sense of belonging, of rightness. 

Of _homecoming_.

“Andrés,” Martín breathed. 

Andrés’s smile widened, and Martín tilted his head back to stare up at him, greedily drinking in the laughter lines on his face, the curve of his lips, the warmth in his eyes. He was so fucking beautiful, and Martín had missed him. 

He could barely tear his gaze away long enough to glance around. 

He found himself back in the monastery, lounging on the sofa in front of the fireplace with his head pillowed in Andrés’s lap. It would be easy to close his eyes and drift off to the crackling of the flames and the heat of Andrés’s body next to him. But Martín didn’t dare. He wouldn’t let a single second of this moment pass him by. 

It was a gift, and Martín would treasure it. 

Especially if Andrés kept playing with Martín’s hair, carding his fingers through the strands. It made Martín want to purr. To have Andrés touch him so tenderly, with such love and reverence…

It was _heavenly_.

“I’ve always enjoyed the time we spent together, just the two of us,” Andrés said, his tone wistful. “I didn’t realize then how much it meant to you.”

Martín furrowed his brow. He didn’t understand what Andrés was saying, but it hardly mattered. As long as he could lie back and enjoy the moment, he was content. 

He was _happy_.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt like this. At peace with himself and the world.

He never wanted this moment to end.

“Our plan is demanding more lives than we had feared.”

“It’s a shitshow,” Martín said. He didn’t want to talk about it. The Bank felt far away now; a nightmare he had once had. He didn’t want to think about it anymore, now that he had woken up in Andrés’s arms. “We lost Nairobi, and it looks like I didn’t do so well either.”

Andrés hummed. 

“Tomorrow is another day,” he said, cryptically. 

Martín blinked up at him in confusion, his heart sinking.

“What?”

“Someone has to look after the others,” Andrés said. He was still smiling, but the light in his eyes had dimmed. He looked distressed, like he was bracing himself—

Dread filled Martín unlike anything he had ever felt before. It was harsh and cruel and unforgiving as it spread through every fiber of his being. As it swallowed him whole. 

Martín shot up in his seat, his upper body twisting around so he could grasp the lapels of Andrés’s suit.

“No. Please, no. You can’t send me away,” he begged, his throat closing up with tears. “I can’t lose you, not again.”

“You have to be patient,” Andrés said. He sounded sad and lonely. It broke Martín’s heart, and made him choke as he clenched his hands in the fabric of Andrés’s blazer, as he clung to him for dear life.

Andrés offered him a pained smile, and pried his hands away. 

“Take your time, _querido_. I will see you later.” 

The fire in the fireplace dwindled and died, plunging the monastery into blackness. Martín had been blinded, as helpless as a newborn.

The ground shifted beneath them, tilting the world on its axis. It was nauseating. The wind was growing stronger, so harsh that it turned the whole building into a doll house – a fragile thing, easily broken. 

The windows burst with a loud crash and the stone walls crumbled, brick by brick. A rush of cold air pushed through the cracks, freezing him to the core.

What had been a sanctum just moments before was now turning into Martín’s personal hell. 

“No,” Martín cried out into the darkness. 

There was no reply. Andrés was gone. 

“Come back. Don’t leave me alone. _Please_!”

He felt the press of Andrés’s lips against his brow, more caress than kiss. It warmed Martín all over, despite the cold forcing its way into his body. 

“Don’t be afraid, just let go.” 

The words echoed around him, the last traces of Andrés lingering before fading into nothingness. 

Then, it was as though he had never been there in the first place.

He was gone. 

And Martín was still there, left behind in the wreckage of his life.

He was crying – choking on his own tears – when he felt a sharp tug at his navel. He was being pulled forward by an invisible string, away from the decay and debris. 

The sensation became more insistent as the pull turned into pain, sharp and nearly unbearable in its intensity. Like someone had shot him in the stomach. 

When his eyes fluttered open, everything was bright and gray. 

And red. Always fucking red.

“Palermo! Thank God, you’re okay.” Stockholm blurred into focus, her hair a golden halo. “It’s okay. You’ll be alright.”

Somehow, Martín knew that was a lie.


End file.
